


Rising Tide

by Ayespii



Category: Original Work
Genre: Based On A Short Story, Don't Repost Elsewhere, Dystopian, Environmental Themes, I Don't Even Know Her, I'm Doing This For School, Miscarriage, More tags to be added, Oblivious MC, Peer Pressure Me, Rough Draft, Self-Esteem Issues, That's Why There's No Romance In This Fic, Water, Water Crisis, Working Summary, be nice, long hair don't care, personal work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 13:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21339238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayespii/pseuds/Ayespii
Summary: There were a few rules that Noah's mother had told him.1) Don't talk, it's a waste of water.2) Don't work in the mines until I give you permission.3) Never try to go to Oasis.4) Always take care of your father.And then he went on to break her rules, society's rules, and his own in every way he could. By the time Noah regretted his actions, it was much too late.
Kudos: 1





	Rising Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kisskissfallinwhump](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisskissfallinwhump/gifts).

> If you're somebody I know from school reading this 
> 
> Feel free to find me in school and shout at me to update

The groan of machines echoed through the empty streets; most of them carried coal but one was different. A carriage rumbled down the road, black smoke spewing out behind it and into the faces of the slum people who followed like a pack of coyotes. They yipped as they ran down the street, dogging their prey like starved hunters. The carriage was not drawn by horses but instead was powered by a loud, clanging engine that seemed to scream at each movement. A worn-out device, it bore the most valuable commodity in the world.

A harried man driving the carriage stopped in the middle of the road to address the dirty mob behind him. There were maybe thirty in total, but to a boy observing the scene, they all looked the same: dirty, desperate, and dreadfully thirsty. “Alright, you lot, line up!” the driver shouted. His manner was pompous and his outfit, a bright blue uniform with spotless white gloves, immaculate.

Even though the boy really did not want to join the ragged crowd, it was in his best interest to do so. The child was forced to dodge pointy elbows and mad hands trying to rip people away from the line, and despite the fancy man’s repeated calls for order, none fell over the parched people.

Once he managed to slip closer to the front due to his small size, he was able to see the carriage better. The blinking electronic poster on its smooth metal side featured the soothing face and patronizing smile of Timothy Hydro, the omnipresent figurehead of Hydro Company, the only corporation on Earth that produced clean water for its inhabitants. The man seemed to sparkle standing with a pristine beach and rolling ocean in the background. “Drink more water, dehydration no, no, no!” the poster declared in a crackly voice.

“It’s ahnly thanks ta these Hydra lots that we’re even in this situation.” Hot breath met his ear, and the boy spun around. He came face to face with a short man. More sweat that stank like oil and coal steamed from the man as he continued. “If them rich folks hadn’t poisoned every water puddle out there, maybe we wouldn’t be beggin’ Hydra for a drink every day. We mine and mine and mine ‘til we practically breathe coal and then what do we get in return? What do they even do with that stuff?”

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but the man was thrown aside by a larger man who took his place in line. Suddenly he found himself at the front of the line, staring into the bespectacled eyes of the driver who shoved a white-gloved hand in his face. The boy fumbled for the glass vial offered to him. He clutched the vial in his left hand as the driver stamped his right. The bright red H2O symbol became the cleanest part of him, the crisp symbol cutting its way through the thin layer of dust covering his skin. With the mark, it was impossible to get another water vial until it wore off. He quickly stepped away from the water truck before he could be overcome by the slowly growing mob behind him.

“No more, no more! Out of water, now git, you lot of dried idiots! Disperse! Don’t make me tell Mr. Hydro that this slum sector was harassing the water carriage, or else good luck trying to get another drink anytime soon!” The boy picked up his pace, disappearing from sight as he maneuvered through the muttering clumps of people, avoiding greedy hands that reached out to clutch him.

Remnants of ancient brick walls divided the shantytown into a confusing maze, but he knew the place well. He slipped into a nearby alleyway, scraping the soles of his worn shoes against the dried dirt that may have once been mud. The boy held up the vial to the light, watching the rainbow that refracted.

“That’s a nice bottle of water you have there.”

The boy turned around, coming face to face with an old woman. She smiled fondly at him, the action stretching her dried lips until they cracked, blood dripping down her chin. Her tongue darted from her mouth as if to lap up the precious liquid.

“When I was a young girl, they would pay us in bottles. Now they don’t pay us at all, do they? You just work in the coal mines, prancing around in polluted puddles, hoping you’ll be one of the few chosen to leave this desert town. And the worst part is that they were the ones who poisoned the water in the first place. All of them with their dirty machinery.”

His face must have expressed his wariness because her harsh features turned gentle. “Always begging the rich for a drink. Well, don’t let me stop you.” As he began to drink, she continued her ramble. “Don’t you see the cycle? They’re keeping us trapped, using our body’s needs against us, and only a few can escape. Those lucky sheep are selected because they will obey, not because they work hard.”

He looked at her doubtfully. As if sensing his skepticism, she suddenly lurched towards the boy, intense eyes frightening as she loomed over him. “You shouldn’t have to work for clean water. Water should be free for all, not a reward. What do you think is beyond that gate, boy?”

The boy shrugged.

“You used to be able to turn on a faucet to get water. They say that the wall protects us from the desert outside, but I’m not so sure.” She smiled again. “Then again, don’t listen to me. I’m just a dried out relic of the past.”  
But he did listen.

…

“I told you all, I’m out! No more water! Now get out of the road!”

The boy wondered what it was like to have enough water in one’s throat to shout that loudly. He never talked because it was just a waste of water, but he knew that others would talk until they could not anymore. Despite the shouts from the carriage driver, the slum people did not retreat. Clumped in front of the gate that led out of the town, the people stood motionless, surrounding the machine, like a menacing display of dirt-caked mannequins.

Guards by the gate gripped their narrow batons. They radiated tenseness and began making their way toward the water carriage, but the crowd repelled them.

He crept closer, sticking to one side of the street while also seeking a closer look. They were all chanting. “More water!” A few older people were holding up crude signs, but everyone had the same demand. “More water!”

The boy remembered a day when the miners would grovel in front of the water carriage. They used to bow down on their knees, praying in every language they knew, begging to be spared from death by thirst. Unanswered pleas quickly turned to anger. The growing riot in front of him was definitely bad news.

Common sense whispered for him to leave, but morbid curiosity kept his feet rooted to the ground.

“Move! Or I’ll run you all over!” It was a useless threat. There was no way the carriage could pick up enough speed to break free of the horde. “I swear, I will!” The man’s voice was nearly drowned out by the roar of the mob. The boy did not envy his position. Even though nobody would dare to exit through the gate after the carriage, the man would never make it to the wall unless he managed to convince the mass to clear. The gates began to open slowly with a creaking groan, but they stopped short as the people grew more frenzied.

If anything, his threats only incensed the populace. Their din rose to a crescendo, like a choir of demons chanting for more water. A few shrill but distinct voices managed to reach the boy’s ears from his position on the outskirts of the crowd.

“Let me come with you!” someone demanded. Rumor had it that outside of the slums, every working person was paid with water. Nobody ever came back, so nobody knew if it was true.

“Screw Hydro! Poisoning the water, keeping us poor, what right do you have!? Offering us the leftovers!”

One person managed to grab the edge of the electronic poster, tearing the page away from the carriage before ripping the poster into pieces. It incited the crowd, and suddenly they converged on the water carriage as fragments of ocean and beach flew through the wind. Half of Hydro’s smile landed close to the boy, leering at him.

The boy slipped towards the gate, eyeing the gap. Not big enough for an adult, but just right for him. The guards had abandoned their post in order to break up the turmoil, but despite mightily swinging their weapons they could not disperse the riot. Leaving behind the carnage, the boy approached the gate still standing ajar.

He reached out, pressing a dirty hand to the coolness of the gate, inhaling slowly. Then the boy slipped outside to the expanse of the desert, and the world turned white.

Noah woke up to his mother gently shaking him. Soft blue eyes met his, long blonde hair tickling his face as warm hands rubbed his shoulders. His body ached faintly, and the hard clay bed beneath him stood rigidly despite him slowly sitting up. The boy yawned. Sunrise sent rays of red and pale orange into the small room, illuminating the dusty furniture that had existed long before Noah had been born, but it was a comforting sight.

“It was hard to wake you,” his mother whispered. “Were you dreaming?”

Noah nodded. He stood up, turning to open his mouth and tell her about leaving the slums.

She gave him a chastising look. “Noah, don’t speak. It was about the protest you saw yesterday, wasn’t it?”

He could only nod again. Speaking was a waste of water, and yet no matter how many times his mother drilled this simple, hypocritical rule into him, Noah always had to resist the urge. His mother spoke for both of them, and she could always read him. She always knew.

“I’m sorry you were there and I wasn’t there to protect you,” his mother said heavily, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her arms went to cup her pregnant stomach, a deep frown forming on her face, a look unnatural for the happy and soft woman who remained kind despite the world of sand they lived in. It made Noah uncomfortable, and he quickly walked over to her and grasped her hand in his.

“Only eight years old, and you’re already the one comforting me.” She sighed, before gesturing towards the exit of the room. “Go see your father. He wants to talk to you.”

That must have been why he had been woken up so early. His father left for the mines early in the morning so that he could come back in the early evening and help take care of his mother. Noah was technically old enough to help, but his father refused to take him yet. He swallowed the hope that perhaps today was the day that he would finally agree to take his son. After all, working for water was better than having to go to the lame school that the slum had.

Noah walked out to the main part of the hut, bare feet rubbing against grains of sand that had blown in during the night. He peered at the dim figure of his father, standing in the doorway awkwardly as if his father was still planning what he would say. No words wasted in the household. He tilted his head.

“Noah,” a pause as the deep tenor of his father’s voice echoed in the silent room. “I want you to go with your mother to Clara today. It’s important to me that you both stay with her today because there have been rumors in the mine of more violence. It will be safe there.”

The boy frowned but did not argue. He never argued with his father. And yet, the urge to ask to go with him to the mines burned, and he gestured towards the man pointedly.

It was a common argument, and his father sighed heavily. Every boy Noah’s age either went by themselves or were taken by family members to work. It was like a rite of passage for children in the slums: graduation to maturity. Up until the age of twelve, every child received free water, and if they worked, then they could earn extra and provide for themselves and their family. It was Noah’s dream to work and bring home vials for his mother so that she did not have to settle for only one vial. Pregnant women got a free water vial as well. And yet, his father shook his head, long hair falling over his face at the motion. “Noah, we’ve been over this. Please.”

There was something in his voice today that gave Noah pause. He had heard many emotions in his father’s tone over the months: exasperation, annoyance, patience, anger, sadness, but now there was something else. A note of desperation almost. Was he begging? Surely not, but Noah nodded all the same. His father responded likewise before turning away, leaving the hut and letting the thin cloth fall back into place.

The morning after that was slow. They still had food pellets from Sunday, so there was no need to make that run out to the Distribution Center. The food was tasteless yet filling, and Noah once again had to decline his mother’s offerings.  
“Please, Noah, eat some more. You’re a growing boy.”

Noah was always hungry, but his mother was pregnant. He gave her a skeptical look, gesturing to his stomach pointedly. Ever since Noah could remember, his mother had always cared for him. She had given him half of her water, given him extra food pellets, made sure to clothe him so that the sand did not wear away at his skin overly so. But now he was old enough to walk without holding her hand, and she was the most important person in the household. It should have been the other way around, him offering her his extras. And yet, she refused stubbornly.

He stood up, staring at the small nutrient pills with distaste. The boy turned away, motioning for her to follow him.

“Did your father tell you to take me to Clara’s?” she asked knowingly. “He worries too much.”

Clara was a ten-year-old girl with brown eyes and dark brown hair that she tied up in a bun or ponytail with some weird, stretchy string that a water carriage man had offered her once. He had never patrolled again, perhaps for that reason. Softness was taken advantage of, it was a weakness, and yet Noah knew that it was her most prized possession. Long hair was uncommon. It made one overheat.

Her mother was a doctor and had known Noah’s mother long before he had been born. The walk to the other hut was short. Noah knew the alleys like the back of his hand, leading his mother through the slums, carefully taking the most shaded paths and avoiding the people of the slums who were rousing themselves. It was best to avoid other people if at all possible.

The shantytown was old, with dusty and leaning buildings made of clay and other materials with the occasional wooden plank seen here and there. There were cobblestone roads, and in the morning they were cool enough to walk on comfortably. In the afternoon sun, the stones would burn worse than the sand itself. Small hills of sand stood as sidewalks, blowing into the houses with each blessed breeze that passed by. Noah remembered playing in them, when he still viewed as sand as fun.

Now, the sand was only a nuisance, a fact of life that was always everywhere and in everything. Even him.

“Marie! You should’ve come earlier, I told you your checkup was two days ago!”

Clara’s mother was a doctor, or at least, the person with the most medical knowledge in his particular slum sector. A big-boned and cheerful woman with a piercing voice, the woman grasped his mother in a tight hug that Noah did not envy. “Marie, really, you need to be taking better care of yourself! You’re so skinny, a hard wind might blow you over.”

His mother emitted a soft laugh. “Please, you exaggerate.”

The large woman moved aside, beckoning them in. Inside, it was the same as his own living room. Every hut was the same, differentiated only by their inhabitants and the decorations. The two adults moved to sit on the couch and talk, but Noah slipped away silently to the side room.

Inside was Clara, lying on her bed, idly spinning a glass bottle on the clay. It rattled with a fascinating hum, he watched in interest. The incoming sunlight made the vial glitter, sparkling with color. Noah wished he knew why.

He cleared his throat.

The girl glanced up, smiling brightly as she abandoned the bottle and sprung to her feet. “Noah!” Clara had just as piercing a voice as her mother, and Noah swallowed a wince as the energetic girl threw her arms around him. “Are you okay? Mother said that you were at the protest and almost got hurt and didn’t want to do much, and you haven’t come to school for the past few days and I got really worried but Mother didn’t want me to come bother you because--”

He held up a hand, shaking his head with a smile.

“If you say so,” Clara replied with a sigh of relief. “I was just so worried. Was it really as bloody as they say?”

He nodded. Remembering sent a shudder down his spine, and he shivered visibly. It had been the first time he had truly seen blood, the first time he had really seen the Oasis guards use the heavy weapons they had on their waist. While it had not happened by the gates like in his dream, they had begun to riot in front of a water carriage. Of course, the one time he had convinced his mother to let him go alone, there had been chaos and a fight. She had sworn she would never let him out of her sight again, but she always made an exception for playdates with Clara.

“That bad, huh? At least they decided not to punish the whole Sector. Father said that if it had been anybody but Lennithon Hydro, we would have been droughted for a week.”

He shrugged. Noah knew a lot about nothing when it came to Lennithon Hydro. Sure, the CEO was new and had already installed some new changes in the system like limiting the number of hours somebody could work in the mines and keeping the water output consistent. It made the Oasis seem stronger, always affording the same and sustainable water no matter what. Theories had it that there was a new system in place, but nobody really knew where the water came from so Noah did not put much stock in it.

“Come on. I want to show you something.” She bounced in place, ponytail flying behind at the motion.

Noah followed her, letting her grab his hand. Dusty skin met dusty skin, but he was used to it, and the sensation of being pulled through the sandy town that they called home was a familiar one. He had known her for as long as he could remember, and since they were only a few months apart, their parents had practically raised them together. It was nice to have a friend in the slums. Still, he had no idea what she could be showing him that they had not already seen.

They waved goodbye to their parents with a promise to stay in the area and stay out of trouble.

“Noah! Clara! What’s the rush?”

“Ha, look at them kiddos run.”

“Wish I could be that young again.”

Children were rare in the slums, even with the pregnancy allowances the Oasis made. It ensured that Noah and Clara were always smiled at and people were ready to move the less sane slums goers out of their paths. Noah’s mother had told him that their presence brought the others hope. Noah did not question the special treatment they received.

The two approached the towering walls surrounding the slums. The scratched but powerful metal structure stood unforgivingly before them, and although the shade was nice, the metal was still warm to touch. Noah glanced at her questioningly, looking around. Most people were in the mines, and living close to the wall meant having to suffer patrols of guards checking to make sure nobody was attempting to climb over or dig under them. And nobody liked to live closer to Oasis people than they had to.

Clara wordlessly began to climb one of the huts. It was usually rude to monkey over the slums, especially since the only thing people ever really truly owned was their own space, but Noah did not spare a second thought as he followed her, mimicking her footholds and careful movements to the top.

She glanced at him, pointing outwards. “Look.”

He did so. The slums were far reaching, separated by smaller gates and brick walls built, separating the place into a large maze full of people who were all the same. Taller were the metal walls like the one they were up against. It was strange to think that some people who lived in the more central sectors had never been able to touch the walls that enclosed them. The sun was tall over the desert, casting down a heated ray, and they stood just inside the shadow of the wall behind them. The earth was covered in orange and yellow, and the people were just grains blowing around in the wind.

He could see the various Distribution Centers, large buildings of grey and colorful windows. That was where people could trade their work hours for other materials and food. He could see the various mines scattered around the slums. There was an opening in each sector, and the large mine underneath the slums could apparently connect every place in the slums if somebody learned the tunnels well enough. He had never been. He stared at the shantytowns, wondering what it would be like if he could see through the sand to all of the roads underneath the ground.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Noah turned to look at Clara, staring at her bright eyes and her long hair that shifted in the breeze. She smiled and he nodded obediently, but the sight of their prison only made him wonder what was outside of the walls. Clara enjoyed the slums because she knew nothing else and could not imagine anything more. Noah wondered why.

When they returned, his mother was lurking by the doorway. She grabbed Noah’s wrist, more roughly than usual, turning away and stalking away. Clara’s mother was steadfastly sewing. It reminded him of that one time Clara had given him the cold shoulder during an argument, and so he waved goodbye to Clara and resolved to not seeing her for a little while until the adults could make up.

…

It was night again when Noah woke to speech. It was unusual, and it was that fact that drove Noah to his feet. He slid off of the thin mat, rubbing dust out of his hair as he trotted into the main room. It was so early that no light filtered through the small window, but the people spoke quietly anyways.

“Marie, you can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong and it’s,” his father floundered for a word, “dangerous.” His voice was low, face dimly illuminated in the small light, just barely showing his eyebrows drawn in worry.

Noah hid in the doorway, crouching low to conceal his eavesdropping.

“Everything in this world is dangerous. Everything we do is dangerous. I do this so that we may create a world where that isn’t the case. For Noah. For Clara. Do you want them to grow up like us?” His mother was tired. Her voice was hoarse, almost as if she had been shouting earlier. It was strange to hear her sound so, defeated.

Another voice. Noah could not place it, although it sounded vaguely familiar.

“Marie’s right. And she’s in the best position to do this. I mean, information from the inside? John, you know that we can’t pass up this opportunity.”

The boy leaned forward, eyes widening as he strained to see the almost-stranger in their house. It was too dark, and his mother’s body was in the way.

“Opportunity?” his father snapped. His voice raised, hands gesticulating wildly. “She’s pregnant! She needs water, not, not to be part of some demented--have we sunk that low?”

Mother let out a soft hiss in warning at his volume before replying. “‘She’ is right here. John, it’s fine. Our connections are safe and the information we have is invaluable. We just need more time.”

“And time we have, for now.” The new voice spoke again. “Once Maria is well again, we’ll need a different approach.” He spoke as if her pregnancy was a sickness. Noah frowned, leaning forward to listen.

“And what about Noah?”

Upon hearing his name, he startled violently, shoulder knocking into the clay door frame and loudly freeing some loose chunks. They clattered to the floor. The three adults immediately shifted, the movement of their shadows visible to the boy. There was a long moment of tense silence before Mother stood. “Noah?”

Noah gave a small hum of confirmation, although the noise buzzed in his ears with the force of a water carriage rattling down the street. He stood up quickly, trying to appear sleepy. “I--”

“Shh.” He could sense his mother’s smile, even in the darkness, and a warm hand touched his shoulder. How she could see was beyond him. “Eavesdropping is a very dangerous thing to do. Rude, as well. This is an adult conversation, yes?” Noah felt himself being steered away from the doorway. “I bet it was too hot to sleep. I think the bottles should be cool again, we can use those.” The bottles that they placed in the sand and later held to be cool.

Even as Noah was told to lie back on his mat and press the cold, grainy bottle against his neck and forehead, he could not fall back asleep, but he did not dare to go back outside to listen.

...

Pregnancies were a blessing and a curse. The mothers got two vials, although Noah’s mother often convinced him to drink part if not all of her extra one. He was a growing boy, she would say. The mothers were allowed to rest all day and there was an unspoken agreement among the slums people to not bother them. This is what Noah knew.

But Noah hated his sibling. Whoever was growing inside of his mother’s womb, eating away at her nutrients and drinking all of her blood, siphoning her health, they were not going to be worth it. Another person to care about, another person to provide for.

Noah was not the only one, either. While pregnant women were smiled upon, multiple children in a family were frowned upon and thus penalized as so. The parents were viewed as selfish, and the sibling bond could never survive the scarcity of resources in the slums. It was a recipe for disaster brewing, and Noah did not care for it. So his mother never received the respect she deserved and while Noah was treasured, his sibling will be born into a community of evil eyes. He did not wish that upon anyone, much less somebody he would be expected to care for.

As much as he hated the parasite in his mother’s stomach, he knew that once they were born, he would love them. And then their lives would grow much harder and Noah--

“Dear, don’t glare at them like that. It will make them feel unloved.” And then her hands were covering her plump stomach and Noah looked away, breaking the intense stare. He did not have the heart to tell her that they were unloved.

There was a snicker behind them. Eavesdropping was rude, but the man behind them in line to the water carriage did so anyways. It was a slow line-- the heat was particularly terrible today. Most people had gone to the mines just for the cooler air and the faint breeze, but the people in the town turned to molasses under the sweltering air.

“He ain’t wrong.” The voice was unwelcome, a gust of disgusting air stirring up the stillness for a brief moment before fading, leaving nothing but an irredeemable stench behind.

Noah turned around.

People always treated his mother well until they found out about him. In some way it made Noah feel guilty, but it made him hate his unborn sibling all the more. It was their fault that his mother suffered. It was theirs.

And it was their fault when his mother died.


End file.
